


Rarely Given

by Countryole



Category: The Gifted (TV 2017)
Genre: Eclaris, F/M, Pre-Series, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 21:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12920823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Countryole/pseuds/Countryole
Summary: "Forgiveness was a gift, rarely deserved, and even more rarely given. It was never owed or expected, and Lorna didn’t deserve it, not from him." One mission gone awry and one temper gone astray leaves Lorna Dane with feelings she'd rather not face. Another pre-series glimpse at Eclaris.





	Rarely Given

There were two things Lorna Dane was exceptionally bad at; apologies and saving face.

In addition to her magnetism, there was also a time her peers would have said she mastered the art of being a major bitch. Seeing as the latter was more frowned upon, even by mutant standards, she hadn’t kept up the practice—at least not intentionally. However, as today would have it, it appeared she still possessed some skill level when it came to making people feel like complete shit.

Usually she wouldn’t care. A dozen ill-picked fights with John on her worst days and several years later, the mutants at the Atlanta station were used to her occasional fowl mood and permanent lack of tact. Polaris had little concern for things like other peoples feelings where keeping the underground safe was concerned. Her motto had always been something between the lines of _I don’t give a fuck_ and _I especially don’t give a fuck about what you think_.

There was just one problem.

She actually _did_ care this time.

“You’re so incredibly _stupid_.”

Lorna’s words were for herself, an angry accusation turned into a sliver of smoke as she exhales, rising into the night and disappearing. Her legs dangled off the edge of the rooftop, and she hunched into her too-large jacket, ignoring the chill of fall seeping into her skin. She should go inside, but pride kept her there, shivering and miserable, penance for her incredible act of utter idiocy just hours earlier.

The mission in Perry today had gone horribly awry. Their point of contact, a long time ally, was killed by Sentinel Services crossfire. She and Sonia had gotten caught in the middle of it, trying save a wounded refugee, and failing. They were outgunned and outnumbered, backed into an inescapable corner with no where to run. They should have died too. They _would_ have, if it weren’t for him.

Marcos saved them. 

Lorna had ordered him and John to evacuate when she realized she and Sonia had been trapped. It was too dangerous to risk their lives with so much at stake, and two lives sacrificed were better than four if it meant the underground would survive once she was gone. Lorna would rather die than let Sentinel Services take her alive, and she had resigned herself to just that. He wasn't _supposed_ to come back.

But he did.

He came back, and lit every single Sentinel patrol car on fire, turning the parking lot into a gasoline fueled supernova display for everyone within a mile radius to see. Even now the explosions echoed inside her head, the smell of smoke coating her lungs, still stuck in her throat. He’d materialized out of the billowing clouds like a ghost, eyes wild with worry until he found her, until he could pull her and Sonia up from the ground where they had huddled in preparation for their impending death. 

At some point he’d been shot, but Marcos didn’t seem to notice the hole in his shoulder, or the way Sonia and she gaped at the glowing wound in horror. Despite Sonia’s very vocal suggestion that he let her look at it once they were safely in the getaway car with John, he didn’t seem the least bit concerned. He kept saying mundane things like _I’m fine_ and _Lorna, are you ok?_ all the while seemingly oblivious to the profuse amount of molten lava-like blood he was getting all over the backseat, burning holes through the fabric of both the car and Lorna’s leather jacket.

Lorna managed to get the bleeding stopped, at the expense of ruining said leather jacket entirely. Marcos still passed out on the way back to HQ, upon which she may or may not have began panicking and yelling profanities at John to drive faster.

Upon waking up, what did she do to thank him for his heroism? For risking his own life to save hers?

She screamed at him.

_Loudly_.

Loud enough for everyone on the lower level at head quarters to hear her, according to Sonia. Loud enough that even now, hours after the fact, her throat wasn’t just hoarse from smoke inhalation, but all the angry things she’d said. Propped up on coach, makeshift sling on his arm, stitches _she_ gave him in his shoulder, Marcos weathered her legendary temper in stoic silence. She repeated several choice phrases through out her tirade, including but not limited to _you’re a god damn idiot_ and _you could have died_ as well as _I could have lost you._

It was after the last one that she couldn’t scream anymore.

The realization hit her as she said the words. They stole her breath from her lungs and robbed her of her rage. She felt small, deflated, and most of all ashamed. She wasn’t angry because he disobeyed a direct order. She was angry because he kissed her that night outside headquarters, because she couldn’t sleep without seeing those god damn aurora lights flooding her dreams. She was angry because of the way he smiled at her, like she was the only person in the room, because her mind inevitably—always—drifted back to him.

No one else had ever mattered before. She hated herself for it, for _feeling._

She hated herself for being afraid to lose someone.

But what she hated most was look on his face after she tore him apart, because despite how well he might have hid it, his expressive eyes always gave him away. Her words caused more damage, more hurt, than any bullet ever would.

Of course, instead of apologizing like a normal person would, she ran away instead.

Now she was here, alone on the roof, contemplating doing everyone a favor and throwing herself off the side of the building.

Lorna knew she shouldn’t let those kinds of thoughts have any sort of space in her head, but she could feel them on the periphery, like an old friend you meet in passing—the kind you probably shouldn’t talk to. There was a time she might have listened to them, invited them in and let them make themselves at home. Hands in her lap, Lorna looked down—palms up, fingers trembling, the scars on her wrists hidden beneath the cuffs of metal that gleam in the dark. Her messy green strands of hair fall in front to her face, obscuring her view. Or maybe it was the tears.

“You’re going to catch a cold if you stay out here.”

Lorna startled, color draining from her face at the sound of the voice behind her. She wiped away stray tears furiously, cursing under her breath. She finally pulled herself away from the edge of the ledge, turning around, knees pulled to her chest, curled into herself. Green eyes met golden brown through the dark. Marcos stood in the open door to the stairwell, a silhouette against the flood of light tumbling out behind him, almost reaching where she sat.

“It’s not that cold,” Lorna lied, hugging her legs closer to her, her chin resting in the gap between her knees. She watched him carefully, noting he still wore his sling, the slight grimace that reached the edge of his eyes when he shifted his feet.

“Can I come sit wth you then?” Marcos gestured with his good hand, head tilted, offering her an olive branch smile, “if you’re not planning on going in.”

“I can’t really stop you.”

“Oh, I imagine you could.”

Marcos took her lack of resistance as an open invitation, and stepped forward, moving to sit beside her on the ledge. Lorna shivered again, but this time it wasn’t the cold, it was his arm brushing hers, his body close enough that she could feel his radiant warmth. Her mind betrayed her, images of leaning against him swirling in her head, visions of his arm around her instead of just out of reach—so close, yet so terribly far away. 

Lorna chastised herself mentally, beating back the unwelcome thoughts, wishing she would have told him to leave.

She existed in a state of madness every day of her life, her mind constant chaos, but it was something she had learned to control, and manage, and live with. Mental disorders didn’t understand the concept of mercy, relentless in their attempt to rob you of a normal life. The variables might change, but she had learned to adjust, to evolve, to rework the wiring of her thoughts so that they didn’t trigger the worst parts of her.

Marcos was different though, he was something she hadn’t seen coming, an unaccounted for variable she couldn’t mitigate or compartmentalize away. _She_ was different around him, she felt it in the dangerous spiral of her thoughts, in the way her heart beat frantically against the cage of her ribs when he was close, just like now.

For a while, they sat in silence, neither willing to speak before the other. Marcos relented first with a tired sigh, and Lorna could see him scrub his face with his hand out of the corner of her eye. He looked haggard, his bad arm cradled against him in the makeshift sling, the slump of his shoulders exhausted.

Lorna’s fingers itched to reach out and touch him. 

“What are we doing, Lorna?” When she looked up, Marcos’ sad eyes were staring back at her.

“Sitting on the roof.”

His dry, unamused laugh echoed around them. Marcos made a valiant effort not to scowl, but his resolve wavered just enough that she could see the exasperation pulling down at the corners of his mouth. His frustration with her cracked the edges of his usually unflappable good nature. Instead of patiently sitting on the sidelines of her volatile moods as he had done in the past when they first met, he fired back.

“Can you refrain from being a smart ass long enough to have an actual conversation, or is that just as impossible as controlling your temper?”

Lorna winced, because it was true. His words were sharp, his face a picture of vexation, and justifiably so. Yet despite the fact that Marcos had every right to be upset with her, his expression still fell after he said it. The irritation fled just as quickly as it had appeared, replaced with a somber look Lorna didn’t recognize or understand. 

Something stabbed her, a dull ache in her chest she wasn’t used to feeling—regret.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were barely audible, but they were as real as the remorse that coated them.

Marcos did the very last thing she would have expected him to. He _smiled_.

“For yelling at me, or for getting me shot?” He mused, turning to her, eyes warm, “or for being a smart ass? Your list of grievances is rather long. I’m sure I’m forgetting something.”

Lorna found herself smiling back.

“At least I’m not just an ass.”

“Arguable.”

They both laughed, a quiet, happy sound that collided in the air between them. Lorna felt warmer, lighter. She felt braver too, and before she could let indecision stop her, she reached for Marcos’ hand. She prepared for him to push her away, to evade her touch, but he didn’t. He wove his fingers through hers, and held on tight, the distance between them bridged. For the first time in the last twelve hours, her world stopped spinning.

“You scared me today,” Lorna murmured, “but I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“Did you really expect me to leave you there?” He wondered aloud, brow knit in concern. “Did you really think I wouldn’t come back?”

Lorna shrugged, staring at their hands. 

“People don’t usually stay.”

She realized as she spoke that she wasn’t just talking about today. The confession spanned Lorna’s lifetime, years and years of disappointment having taught her not to rely on anyone. She was used to people leaving. She _expected_ it.

“I’m not planning on going anywhere. That is, as long as you don’t want me too.”

Lorna almost couldn’t believe the words that came out of the man’s mouth. She stared at Marcos, her own mouth nearly agape, her face a portrait of unadulterated disbelief. Had he lost his mind? Was the bullet wound already infected, a fever melting his brain and what little good sense he had to begin with? She had said every possible thing she could to insult him, she had showed him the worst part of herself—the part that hurt the people she cared about. He should be running as far away as possible. He shouldn’t be sitting here, forgiving her, telling her that he _wants_ to stay.

“Lorna, look, you don’t have to answer that—”

Oh, she _definitely_  had an answer.

She kissed him.

This kiss was different from the first one. Her mouth pressed against his, insistent, robbing Marcos of his words. He released her hand, only to tangle his in her hair, his teeth grazing her bottom lip. It was a collision of hungry mouths, and hungrier hearts. Fire—it made sense that his touch would feel that way. The burn was torturous, not because it hurt, but because she wanted more of it, more of _him_. The only thing that remained the same was the light show that surrounded them, their personal aurora, bright and vibrant as it danced and spun in the air.

“Do you always apologize like this?” Marcos murmured, relenting, no longer holding her mouth captive with his own. He rested his forehead against hers, both of them breathing from the effort. “Because if this is a thing, I’m into it.”

Lorna laughed, both of her slender hands framing his face, before kissing him again.

“Was that a yes?” Marcos asked, grinning against her.

Instead of answering, Lorna pulled back, but not far. She kept her hands on him, grounding her. The light around them became a translucent glow, soft and nearly invisible. Her eyes flit to his shoulder, the sling, frowning. She reached out, carefully, touching the place where the stitches she had given him were hidden beneath the bandage below his shirt,“You asked me a question earlier. You asked what we were doing.”

Marcos gently reached up, his fingers lightly brushing her jaw, forcing her to face him again.

“You don’t have to justify anything to me,” he smiled, softly, “it might surprise you to know you’re not the only one who’s temper gets the best of them.”

“Can I give you my answer?”

“Only if you want too.”

Lorna closed her eyes, wishing she could burry herself against his chest. She sighed, heavily, and when her eyes opened again, Marcos was waiting for her.

“I don’t know what we’re doing, Marcos. I don’t know, but if you don’t know either…” Lorna looked down, grabbing his hand again, hoping to anchor herself before fear swept her away, “maybe we can try and figure it out together.”

Lorna prayed, in the seconds between the breaths it took to say the words, that she wasn’t making a mistake. She hoped, more than anything, that the doubt in her head wouldn’t prove prophetic. She would never blame the people in her life for keeping their distance, for guarding themselves against her, and the hurt she was capable of. It was the very same hurt Marcos witnessed today, that he experienced first hand. It wasn’t caused by broken bones, or bullets, but words. The kind of words that can’t be taken back once they’re said. The kind of words that weren’t so easily forgiven.

Apologies were a principle, a manufactured way to repair something to minimal working order, but they were no guarantee. Forgiveness was different, and Marcos owed it least of all to her. Forgiveness was something one gave of themselves, willingly, to the person that had wronged them. Forgiveness was a gift, rarely deserved, and even more rarely given. It was never owed or expected, and Lorna didn’t deserve it, not from him.

“Together?” He repeated the word, testing it, his fingers brushing away the stray green hairs from her face. He leaned close, and Lorna held her breath, nodding, her fingers balling in his shirt. 

“You and me.”

“I think I’d like that.”

He forgave her anyway, and kissed her again.

**Author's Note:**

> I am just so in love with pre-series Marcos and Lorna. They're such an unlikely couple in some ways, and so perfectly paired in others, this mix of chaotic good and neutral good that somehow balances out. I am in love with the idea of Lorna having to learn how to rewire the way she thinks, in order to let him in, and that she does so willingly despite knowing that her mental disorder can affect not just her, but the people around her. She is brave enough to try and let him see parts of herself she hides from everyone else. I am in love with the idea that Marcos tries to understand her and love her without condition, or question, from the very beginning. That even when he gets angry, he never lashes out, or throws the blame back on her. He is patient, and kind. Despite their differences, or their arguments, from early on to the later years in the show, I hope that their respect for one another never changes. It's paramount to why their relationship is so important. xo


End file.
